Inevitability
by embyr-75
Summary: Bitterness warred inside him with relief, the imprisoning nature of his duty setting itself irreconcilably against subservient instincts that ran deeper in him than roots of old, gnarled trees, spiraling endlessly into Hyrule's ancient earth. LinkxZelda
1. Instincts

Instincts

When the Hero of Time crept away from the land that had made him a legend, the Princess of Destiny had said that she believed in her heart they would meet again. It wasn't until he strayed into the enigmatic core of a strange world of masks and giants that he entirely understood how fated he was to fulfill her prediction.

He had left, primarily, because he couldn't stand the devouring loneliness anymore. The journey he was born to take had dissolved out of the history of Hyrule and out of the minds of those who knew him when he returned to his own time. The weight of the memory of that intangible future burdened him beyond expression, and while those who were privileged with the knowledge of what he had accomplished empathized with his affliction, they could never truly grasp the immensity of what he had prevented. Driven by the blind hope that, unlike the others, she might remember, he embarked on a secret and personal journey to find the friend that had companioned him over high mountains; beneath a vast lake; into the house of the dead; even through time.

It was during that journey that destiny made its firm grip over the Hero of Time known; even after he had carried out his obligations to Hyrule, the Goddesses were not content to release him from a sense of duty. His role was created with purpose and he was birthed with an inexorable instinct to defend the biological link between the divine and their world. It caused a literal ache in him, always pulling him relentlessly back towards his responsibility.

He fought the draw for five years. He moved from land to land, the pain in him growing progressively more crippling the farther he strayed from his home. When he thought he would go mad from the torture of it he finally turned back, empty handed, and moved with the unobtrusiveness of a mist over Hyrule's familiar border.

For a while he rested with the Kokiri and told them stories of his travels, gifted them the most harmless of his masks and trinkets from far away worlds. But, though the pain had washed out of him the moment he entered the realm, he was still restless, summoned somewhere constantly. He left them soundlessly on a black night, moved through the cool forest without disturbing the threadbare silence of it and then over Hyrule field on his fiery mare, pushed and pulled as though by a tumultuous wind towards to source of the unending call.

He flexed his grip on his braided reins as the castle bulwark loomed over him. Bitterness warred inside him with relief, the imprisoning nature of his duty setting itself irreconcilably against subservient instincts that ran deeper in him than roots of old, gnarled trees, spiraling endlessly, facelessly, into Hyrule's ancient earth. His horse mouthed the bit, impatient, as though she too were plagued by some deep-seated instinct to protect someone on the other side of the impenetrable stone walls. He nudged the mare forward in one final acquiescence, incapable of denying his innate predestination any longer.

The guards at the gateway could not possibly have recognized him, but after only a moment's inspection they wordlessly opened the gate. Someone took his horse when he dismounted and they lowered the drawbridge for him over the inner moat.

A young guard, probably not many years older than he was, escorted him to the mouth of the castle and told him quietly at the door, "We've been expecting you."

He was brought without hesitation to a familiar inner courtyard; it was greatly unchanged since the last time he'd seen it, unlike the princess who knelt in the grass under the window. She was reading out of a thick book as long as her forearm, loose strands of her flaxen hair that had been tossed free by the breeze from her jeweled pins failing to distract her as they weaved in and out of her vision.

The pain and the restlessness in him melted so thoroughly into nothingness it was as though they had never been. This was why he existed: to protect her. It was incontestable. The utter clarity of his purpose washed away some of the bitterness, too; it was difficult to resent his lack of freedom when his only desire was to ensure her safety. In that same instant she looked up from her book with all the recognition and understanding in her eyes that he had been searching for in Navi.

She rose and met him half way across the courtyard, the way the sun might gracefully rise to meet the moon. She looked ethereal and delicate to him, translucent, like some rare crystal so ancient it no longer had a name. Her shape had changed in the five years he was gone; her frame was willowy and soft, and the bones of her face were more pronounced under her pale complexion. She said, "You came back."

"I couldn't stay away," he answered quietly, dwelling, incredulous, on how much pain he had caused himself by fighting it.

"I know."

A gust of wind swept between them; the leaves in the bushes rattled and the skirt of her dress snapped hollowly. More of her hair twisted out of the pins and veiled her face, but her clear, azure eyes were never hidden. "You know?"

She tilted her head gently, wearing a weak, consoling smile. "It's been hurting me, too."

Later she brought him to her father. The King was hesitant to accept his daughter's explanation, but with Impa's assistance she was able to convince him that the stoic, weathered boy standing in his presence was the most logical choice for head of her personal guard. And so he was knighted at fifteen and given the highest position of authority outside the aristocratic division.

For years he watched her from a distance with an unprecedented constancy. He was as invariable as the castle stonework, always acutely aware of her condition and unfailingly within eyeshot. She could summon him to her side with the most inconspicuous gesture or send his attention elsewhere with the same ease. He held the men serving beneath him to a rigid standard and produced the realm's most disciplined soldiers.

And, though he was always discreet, his unblemished reputation tempted gossiping courtiers more than they could bear.

He was spotted, though standing as unobtrusively in the hall as a shadow, by two young lords and the handful of ladies they were entertaining.

"Who," asked the lesser informed of the two, "is that?"

"You mean Sir Link?" responded one of his ladies in hushed tones.

"Link?" He chuckled derisively. "What an interesting surname."

"Oh, no, he has no surname."

"No?"

"They say he was raised by wood nymphs!"

"He is quite easy on the eyes, though, isn't he?" chimed a lady with a covetous gaze.

"Go ask him for a dance!" encouraged the older lord.

"I won't be caught wasting my time again," she answered forlornly, unfurling her fan with practiced intimation and generating a soft breeze. "He is not to be distracted from his duty for even an instant. He was delectably polite, but very firm."

"No man is so interested in his duties as that without ulterior motives," he responded suggestively.

The first lady gasped excitedly and shielded her mouth with a tiny gloved hand. She hissed, her eyes wide with anticipation, "Whatever do you mean?"

"Obviously he and the princess are lovers."

A few girls twittered, and the others all gasped.

"Scandalous!"

"Lord Owen, is it true?"

The lord who had only a few moments ago not even known the guard's name answered quite assuredly, to the delight of the ladies in his company, "Most definitely! There's no other explanation for his devotion."

Link had moved out of their line of sight, while they gossiped, into the sweeping, arched catwalks above the ballroom as the princess became obscured in the crowd of guests, and they promptly lost interest without visual stimulation.

He could've been empty plate armor for all the attention he drew to himself, yet somehow he was always noticed, and all the more so as the rumors inflated. He couldn't care less what sort of accusations others made against him for their own amusement, but it bothered him that he was, however unintentionally, involved in tarnishing Zelda's good name. He spent a week being decidedly less attentive for her benefit, sending others when she signaled and keeping as far a distance as he could bear while he watched her, but she did not approve.

Zelda's eyes harnessed his meaningfully over the cacophony of a teeming court one evening and he followed her away from the hall, leashed to her will, beyond the drone of voices raised over music, of shoes moving in step to a dance, and of the shouting of the courtiers who had decided to get drunk earlier than the rest that night. She brought him outside, and then into a long, weather-beaten structure in the courtyard that branched into the garden. The silver arches of the hallway were crafted with woven ivy made of stone; they gathered rainwater that froze into delicate sickles in the wintry night, framing the snow-covered garden repeatedly like a series of similar paintings. Zelda turned finally and waited for him; she glowed whiter than the snow in the moonlight.

"You'll freeze," he reproved her gently when he finally closed the distance.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" she demanded, her soft voice uncharacteristically taut.

"People talk," he began gently, but she swiftly dismissed his explanation before he had a chance to expound.

"I know. I've heard what they say. Do you honestly think I care?"

"I care for you."

The tautness relaxed out of her voice. "I don't need anyone to worry on my behalf."

He folded his arms resignedly and leaned his head to one side, inspecting her cautiously. His eyes dropped to her shoes, more suited to dancing than protecting her feet from the cold, and he sighed inwardly at her stubbornness. Finally he finished, softly, "I was defending your honor. I don't want to be responsible for sullying it."

"I know," she allowed, disarmed, her shoulders slumping minutely when he refused to be defensive; she had prepared a convincing argument in the event that he decided to be obstinate. "But I would rather have you at my side than all the esteem and honor of men. I really am too dependent on you," she mused, narrowing her eyes teasingly.

"You'll get your way, of course," he returned in kind, but then sobered and insisted for good measure, "but I think this deserves your sincere consideration."

"I've considered it, and dismissed it," she informed him coolly, walking back towards the gathering with deliberate haste to ensure it was clear that the discussion was over. Her train, embroidered in jewels the shape and color of raindrops, was caught up in the wind and snow as she moved by him; it billowed up to his waist and gleamed in soft moon-colors. He reached tentatively into the swell of her skirt and let the silken cloth run over his fingers as she glided away.

He followed her back into the ostentatious hall. She melted back into the crowd as seamlessly as a stream rejoining a tarn. He knew, despite her illusory smile, that the pretentiousness of court bothered her even more than it did him. He moved along the rim of the ballroom, bringing the heavy-lidded amongst his sentries to attention with a subtle, disapproving glace as he passed them by, the way the shadow of a raptor might rouse a hare rooting around in a field.

Her eyes, as they briefly swept the room, sent for him. He snaked unnoticeably towards her and when he arrived she was otherwise preoccupied; he searched her quickly for some sense of direction and smoothly took the folded note he spotted wedged between two of her fingers, which were laced comfortably behind her back. He followed his trajectory a considerable distance and then opened his instructions.

_Just making sure I'm getting my way._

Link turned to pass her an exasperated glance but when he did she was smiling at him, and he forgot to glare, or even, for a moment, to walk. She anchored him with crippling weight, but he stood under it without buckling.


	2. Fealty

Fealty

Political relations with the Gerudo were nothing if not delicate, and revolved obsessively around an individual's honor and worth. Fortunately, the Princess was wise and an unsurpassed marksman, and her bodyguard was equally well-equipped. Or so the story went, as related by the spokesperson for the visiting delegation hailing from the far west, as she commanded the attention of the dining hall. The nobles sharing the meal were all entertained by her flamboyant storytelling, though some felt unease over the habitual frown worn by her compatriots, all of whom were revolted by the cold that accompanied a Hylian winter outside of the desert and put no extraordinary effort into concealing it. Equally exotic to the aristocrats was the way the desert women ate with their hands and how much they drank. Zelda diplomatically put down her utensils to demonstrate how well she had learned to eat their way when they had hosted her.

Link stalked the edge of the massive hall like a storm on the horizon, looming portentously and yet remaining too distant to cause worry. When dinner was finished the guests mingled. Link overheard, as he passed within earshot of the Princess and her company, a young lord console her in hushed tones,

"You must be all but exhausted, your Highness, entertaining such boisterous visitors."

"On the contrary," she smiled dazzlingly, "I find their liberal posture refreshing."

Link smirked privately as he continued on his way. He knew what she meant to say: that she preferred the Gerudo to the imprisonment of her own court. Aristocracy was a labyrinth of pretenses and facades, unpleasant at its most harmless and entrammeling at its worst. Once, when they were young, he had led her away from the crowds when she had told him her heart wouldn't stop racing, and when they reached the hall she cried from the weight of the pervasive, overwhelming pedanticism. Her slightest error was basis for her country's shame, and her guests' scrutiny was vicious. He held her hand while she wept, and then, relinquishing to her lot like a brittle autumn leaf relenting to the wind, she collected herself and reentered the assembly with grace that belied her age.

His thoughts were ensnarled by his own name, as streak of light might be inescapably knotted on a polished blade, and he turned to identify the source of it. It came from a desperate nobleman who was being cornered by a determined woman from the emissary's delegation, and Link acknowledged the address out of pity despite his initial inclination to do otherwise. The young Count smiled gratefully as he excused himself and approached, using the opportunity to liberate himself from the ropes of the Gerudo's conquest.

"Sir Link," he breathed, bowing his head when he had closed the distance between them. "Forgive me. I am in your debt again."

"You may walk with me, Count," he invited him after he returned the gesture, "if you think it would deter your admirer."

"I think so," he smiled wider. "Thank you."

Link was not usually accompanied as he made his rounds, much less noticed, but these itinerant conversations with the Count were becoming frequent. Link's readiness to partake in his company thoroughly disguised the feelings toward him that he daily worked to suppress, much to his own pain. They skirted the edge of the gathering, walking unhurriedly, the Princess always just in their line of vision.

"She's well, I take it?"

"She is." Link took his eyes off her for a moment uncharacteristically to examine the young nobleman. His hazel eyes, fixed on a radiant sliver of the moon through a crowd he did not see, were ensorcelled. Link smothered the fire that swelled inside him as if to devour when he saw it, attempting to appraise him objectively. He studied the Count's gaze, the unguarded devotion in it, attempting to weigh his worthiness without bias. It was like trying to hold his breath, beneath a veil of froth and waves, forever.

Finally his eyes slid away from her, still misted over as though he lacked his own free will, and came up to meet Link's, which were inveterately unreadable and colorless as ice. He said, "I have another favor to ask of you."

Link mustered a gentle smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Anything."

The Count removed a small box from his vest, not the first in a long line of tokens Link had delivered for him to the Princess, and handed it to him. "I appreciate this," he sighed, his shoulders easing as though by relieving himself of that box he had relieved himself of a great weight. It felt, in Link's own hand, heavy enough to cripple him. "We could never hope to be so discreet without your help."

Link only nodded, wary of what might come out of his mouth should he open it, and concealed the gift in his tunic.

Zelda, swathed in mist-colored cloth and opaque white jewels, watched the exchange out of her peripheral vision while an aristocrat prattled on to her about his brother's brood mares and their excellent lines. The rest of the evening seemed to drag on longer than it had before following that, an impatient, quiet curiosity eating at her as the hours dwindled. She retired as soon as it was allowable, snaking a route through the cool halls to her bedroom with Link's faithful step echoing hers. He came to her door, rather than continue on his way, when she crossed the threshold, and she turned.

He held the token out to her steadily, watching an expression rise in her eyes that he had seen too often before on occasions like these: the look of a woman who was almost in love. She let her eyes rest on it a moment before she moved, the soft, unmistakable glint of contentment coloring them with diffused sea-tones, as though it were meant for looking at and not for taking.

She asked, "From the Count?"

"Yes."

She took it demurely, flicking her gaze to him once to tell him his presence was still required. He stifled his dread as she peeled back the lid and lightly traced the intricate comb, ornamented with inlaid beads and gems and tasseled with strings of semiprecious stones the color of her eyes. She closed the lid again and stroked the case subconsciously, leaning minutely against the doorframe and turning her gaze on Link more intently. She turned the box in her lithe fingers, her mind working in the silence that waited patiently to be broken.

She softly gnawed her lip in reluctance, and then asked, "Do you like him?"

It was the question he loathed above all others, because neither the truth nor a lie would satisfy it acceptably. He shifted on his side of the threshold, carefully wearing a mask of dispassion, and folded his arms while his mind raced for an adequate answer. The hesitant, undecided spangle of hope in her calculating gaze always prevented him from blurting the truth, because he knew that it might someday ripen to be happiness and he was incapable of taking that away from her. An oath and his undying respect prevented him from lying. Ultimately, the only thing he was not prevented from doing was hurting himself. And he would do that to himself, for her, always.

He turned the corner of his mouth up a little for her benefit and said, "I think he likes you very much."

Her eyes slid down the hall, seeing through the nothingness into some private vision, and Link watched powerlessly as an unguarded smile crept over her features.

It dwindled with her errant thoughts and was replaced by a less glorious expression, and she turned her gaze to him again. She asked, "Have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

"I wish you would eat. There are a dozen men you trained yourself that can encircle me while you do."

"You always say that."

"And you never listen."

He watched her for a moment. His last meal had been well before the dinner and it was on the lee side of midnight, but he wasn't unaccustomed to an empty stomach. More to the point, recent events had left him without an appetite. He promised her, "I'll eat now."

"Shall I eat with you?" she offered, pulling pins with milky jewels free from her hair.

"No." He watched her pretenses fall away with her loosed hair, and the slow, subtle transformation as the impervious, stately exterior evaporated and left behind the elegant, stubborn woman that few people were privileged enough to ever meet. He said again, softly, "No. Go to sleep."

He turned before she could insist and left her at the threshold, moving, suddenly drained and exhausted, towards the kitchen to force food into his stomach. After he'd eaten cold goose, bread, and cheese, and warmed himself with wine, he went to his room, stripped for bed, and slowly fell into a restless, unwilling sleep. He woke before daybreak with a start, panting, his hairline beaded with sweat, and heard the end of Zelda's name fall from his mouth unbidden. The silhouette of the horizon, gently outlined in shades of blush and sea foam, stretched silently towards the midnight above it outside his frosted window like an ancient beast stirring after an eon of slumber. He waited deliberately for his heart to calm before mustering the will to move. He rose, dressed, and stalked down the freezing corridors, while bleary, shivering servants scurried everywhere noiselessly setting fires. His morning routine – reassessing every inch of security before the princess awoke after a quick breakfast that he was under orders to eat on pain of death – had become a fixture of Hyrule Castle, and the servants were visibly concerned if he ever arrived more than a few moments late to any given checkpoint.

The kitchen was tentatively waking; pots were placed with enough care so that they hardly made a sound, fires were gently stoked, and few enough cooks were milling through the cookhouse and scullery that no arguments had erupted yet. Link sat on the corner of a worn wooden bench in the kitchen and picked numbly at the simple breakfast that was already waiting for him. Nightmares had been stealing his sleep often enough recently that he couldn't recall the last time he'd had a decent night's rest, and it was gradually bleeding into his work. Fortunately, the sleeplessness hadn't impeded him noticeably yet, but his body felt heavier and his routine took more than the usual effort.

It bothered him that nightmares, typically a child's ailment, were giving him so much trouble, but the possibility that they might be the variety of nightmare that Zelda's had been bothered him much more.

The portly kitchen maid paused at his table to fill his mug with fresh milk. She muttered, her voice soft as she addressed him but harboring enough power to produce impressive bellows, "Couldn't sleep again?"

He shook his head, watching the froth settle, and murmured, "No."

She eyed him with an unspoken, rough-edged concern and said, as she went to move on, "No rest for the weary, eh?"

He chose to ignore the remark. The soldiers assigned the early morning shift trickled in as he was finishing his meal; he poured over the schedule for the guard rotation and Zelda's agenda for the day while they ate, and then oversaw the relief of the night sentries. By now the castle was in its usual uproar; cooks were screaming at each other and at the scullery maids as everything that could potentially go wrong began to, perhaps inevitably, go wrong, while footmen collected platters that miraculously arrived for pickup just when they should have and delivered them to the dining hall, where the royal family invariably found their meal, against all odds, perfectly executed. It was the sort of comforting chaos that indicated everything was as it should be.

No sooner had Link begun the final approach to Zelda's bedchamber than the princess emerged from it, dressed elegantly for the day's affairs, and headed for the dining room. He trailed her, staring with a voracious envy beyond his control at the comb folded neatly into her flawless hair arrangement as the bejeweled spangles of it weaved with her gait. She stopped so suddenly and turned to look over her shoulder at him that he was forced to stop much less gracefully to maintain their distance.

"Could you not walk so far behind me, please, Link?" she asked quietly. As he met her eyes he found them even more tired looking than his and he felt a familiar, instinctual concern.

Normally he would've marshaled wry smile for her, but he found himself unable. The hall was very still and grey in the morning light, and colder than it should have been. He blamed the nightmares, the weather, and the comb for the dark mood gnawing at him, but suspected there was something much more creating the sudden tension he felt as she waited for him. He slowly resigned and began walking abreast of her, but as they walked, she didn't speak.

Her silence, vacant and unreadable, wore on him. While she stared ahead, he stared at her, scanning her unsuccessfully for sign of injury. Finally he asked, "What is it?"

"I dreamt of you last night."

He watched her eyes, the way they were fixated on some private, dark vision as they both walked. At length, he took his gaze off her and said, "Tell me."

"I saw a beast. It towered over a pile of rubble, on an isle hovering over a molten sea, wielding two broadswords with golden blades. There was a ring of fire surrounding it."

"That's not the future you're seeing," he assured her quietly, remembering the scene she described from his own memories with vivid clarity. "It's the past."

"It killed you," she murmured, forced to watch it again and again in her mind. Link had no answer for that glaring difference from his reality. At his silence, she went on, "A new ending for an old conflict, I suppose, if that's happened before."

"You were there, too."

She managed, her voice suddenly, unexpectedly, full of bitterness, "I could not have borne it if it were real."

She turned away to hide that she was close to tears, but he noticed. He whispered, "Zelda."

"I'm sorry," she answered, sounding composed except for a tiny sniffle. "I know it's childish. It was just too gruesome."

He gave her a moment to herself, and then offered, "I had a nightmare too."

The princess laughed a little at herself and was wearing a small, grateful smile when she turned to him again. "What was yours?"

Link caught sight of overnight guests entering the dining room, down the hall, and promised, "I'll tell you after your breakfast."

He escorted her to the end of the hall and was about to see her in when he caught sight of the Count, garbed in a deep blue that brought out the green flecks in his irises. He was visibly stunned, as they all stood before the doorway, and only gawked a moment before remember himself and bowing appropriately.

"Your Highness," he managed, remembering to smile, "you look lovely this morning."

Her responding smile was modest but dazzling. As they were alone for the moment, she spoke a little more freely. "Thank you so much for your kind gift. It's quite beautiful."

The Count dithered for fear extending another compliment might appear overeager, if Link was any judge, and said instead, after taking a breath and marshaling his courage, "I would be very grateful if I might… be near you at breakfast."

"I would enjoy that," Zelda answered politely, but the Count saw a sparkle in her eyes that made his heart flutter. Her countenance was replaced by a quieter, perhaps less genuine smile, and she added, "I fear it may be over too soon."

Link watched her profile and pondered. He knew the thing that was in his head would lead to his own pain. It was almost too much to bear. But he also knew he could never attain that which he truly desired, and he couldn't selfishly hinder her happiness for the sake of his own.

He said quietly, ever able to read her voiceless desires, "I'll arrange it."

Zelda was surprised, as she turned to him, but the happiness in her eyes was more than he had hoped for.


End file.
